


A Gateway to the Stars

by mainecoon76



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (or maybe less than it seems), Celebrations, F/M, Female Narvi, First Meetings, and innumerable stars, culture clash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 15:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20819648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainecoon76/pseuds/mainecoon76
Summary: Legends often have the most innocuous beginnings.Or: The first conversation between Celebrimbor of Eregion and the royal architect Narvi does not quite go as expected.





	A Gateway to the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/gifts).

Legends, Narvi liked to remind herself later, often had the most innocuous beginnings. You did not know, when you were getting there, that you were stepping into a legend. It might be wise to prepare for the eventuality when dealing with elves who were older than the sun, but to most Khazad that was a purely theoretical concern, and the same had been true of Narvi for the better part of eighty years. Celebrimbor, on the other hand, had been called legendary by some of her fellow artisans who had studied his work and claimed that elves could indeed produce marvels if they were gifted enough. But it had been a grudging praise, since the Khazad did not like to be overbearing in such matters; and in any case, there had been no reason to think it would be of any importance to Narvi’s own affairs.

On the evening her own legend began, Narvi doubted the wisdom of intermingling with immortal creatures.

"It's in their nature," Jari hissed into her ear as she stretched her legs under the table. "They live too long. They must be bored all the time."

Narvi smirked, but forewent a reply when one of their hosts gave them a reproachful glance. It was a great honour to be invited to the festival that the marked the Elven midsummer celebrations in Eregion. King Durin considered it a major political event and expected his subjects to behave themselves accordingly. This year he had chosen his most accomplished artisans for company, so they might have a fruitful exchange with the guild masters of Gwaith-i-Mírdain. Narvi was very much looking forward to the exchange, especially with the Lord Celebrimbor who had been placed to her right and was currently staring at the High Table with a vacant expression. They had been briefly introduced, but there had been no time to speak of the arts, and now there was no exchange of any kind taking place because they were not supposed to speak.

Well over a hundred elves and twenty-four dwarves were gathered on a plaza on the bank of the River Sirannon to celebrate. To elven folk that appeared to include sitting on one’s butt and listening to music that dulled the senses. Regardless of their preparations none of the Khazad looked comfortable. They had met only few elves inside Khazad-Dûm, and nothing could have prepared them for their utter strangeness: voices that sung when they spoke, bodies so tall and slender they looked fragile but were not, movements that flowed like water, eyes that shone with an eerie light. The surroundings were artistically flawless, but just as otherworldly as their inhabitants. Wooden tables with curved legs were arranged around the plaza in the heart of the city Ost-in-Edhil, as far as the term "city" could be applied to what merely seemed to be many dwellings in one place. Each building looked as airy and fragile as the next, some of them placed in the crowns of ancient trees, others covered in crawling greenery. The plaza itself was framed by an arcade of slender columns, decorated with illuminated fountains and statues, and candles in delicate crystal holders cast yellow light on bearded faces and sleek elven braids. Fireflies sprinkled small bright dots against the starry darkness of the sky.

The sky was the one thing that filled Narvi with awe.

She had seen the star-strewn firmament before, if only rarely, as her folk did not love to spend the night over ground. Now that there was no choice and little else to do, she found herself drinking in the sight: like diamond dust sprinkled across black velvet, glittering in the light of a thousand crystal lamps. Some stars were bright and clear, others flickered at the edge of her vision, and the longer she looked, the more of them appeared. She wondered what they were made of, and how far one would have to fly to touch them. Could they even be touched, or were they made of pure light?

Narvi had read somewhere that elves loved starlight. It would be a pleasant thing to spend the evening stargazing, to revel together in the beauty of the night sky, to debate its nature and echo it in artworks of diamond and mithril. Instead a female elf with a harp was reciting a ballad for which Narvi's Sindarin was not sufficient. It had something to do with death and suffering, and it was _long_.

Narvi cast a sideway glance at Jari. Their eyes were drooping, and they kept pulling the loops of their own beard to keep themselves awake. Celebrimbor on her other side sat with his head bowed, face shrouded by a curtain of long black hair. For a moment she believed him deeply enthralled by the tale. Then she noticed that his hands were moving under the table.

Further preening revealed that he was scribbling on a piece of parchment in his lap.

Narvi was reasonably sure that this sort of conduct was not considered appropriate. To Celebrimbor’s right, a stiff-backed elven official with tightly braided auburn hair studiously looked away, with what looked like a long-suffering expression on his face. Whatever Celebrimbor was doing captured him quite thoroughly; he seemed lost to his surroundings as he pushed a strand of hair out of his face, curled it around his fingers, tucked it behind a pointed ear, chewed gently on his bottom lip. His features were as fair and strange as any elf's, with high cheekbones and smooth skin and glittering eyes, but the look of rapt concentration was familiar. She wondered what he was working on.

Eventually he paused and glanced around, as if to ascertain that no one had noticed. His eyes widened when he met her gaze, for she had been watching him so intently she had forgotten to avert it in time. They were of an odd silvery colour and seemed to carry their own light. He raised an eyebrow, not looking particularly apologetic.

The elf with the harp was now joined by a second artist who played a dainty silver flute. The singing had ceased, for which Narvi was grateful, but the mournful tune was difficult to follow and had no discernible rhythm. Had these creatures not invented drums? Did they not stomp to their tunes, inviting the audience to join?

(They had, she discovered later, but those songs were reserved for informal occasions.)

Had Narvi been less bored, she might have minded her manners and ignored the incident altogether. As it was, she gave the elf-lord a toothy smile, gestured at the parchment and held out her hand.

A slow grin spread over Celebrimbor's face. It made his features light up, so that for a moment he looked like the mischievous river sprite she had once seen in an illustrated tome on mountain wildlife. He quickly glanced around and, when no one appeared to take notice, shoved the drawing into her hand.

In a few bold charcoal lines, he had sketched a doorway: an entrance that might fit a very splendid hall. Sprinkled across the door were a multitude of stars. Some were set to match the constellations right above their heads; perhaps all, she did not know them well enough to tell. Near the arch of the doorway, seven eight-rayed stars reminded her of Mirrormere.

It was probably coincidence.

Perhaps not, though.

Narvi had made it a habit to carry a pen of graphite at any time, lest inspiration should strike at an inconvenient time. She twirled one finger into her beard in consideration, then sketched a crown and anvil right under the seven stars. Graphite could be erased, after all, if he did not like it.

Celebrimbor watched her from the corner of his eye and snatched the parchment out of her hand when she was finished. A moment later he kicked her under the table and gestured to return it.

In the middle of the doorway now blazed another star. This one was special, eight-rayed and much larger than the others. It looked like a heraldic symbol, one that looked vaguely familiar.

Narvi marked it with an arrow and scribbled a few words underneath. _What does this mean?_

_Symbol of my family_, came the reply, in Cirth runes with a curvy twist. He had boldened the lines of crown and anvil so they stood out clearly, and broadened the arch into a double line.

Narvi added two columns at either side. _I like this, _she informed him. _What is it for?_

_It is a gateway to the stars._

She shot him a surprised look. He appeared entirely serious.

_Purely hypothetical, you mean._

_Unfortunately, yes. I wonder what we would find, if we could get there. _

When Narvi hesitated, Celebrimbor took the parchment back and turned it around for a new sketch. It mirrored the old one, but most of the constellations were gone, so that the crown of Durin and the star in the middle appeared more prominent. Around each column now curled the slender branches of a tree, curved and deeply elvish but of a foreign, inexplicable beauty.

And as she brushed careful fingertips along the charcoal lines, Narvi could envision it: not in charcoal but in truesilver, mirroring the light of the stars in a pure, bright glow.

_It should have a purpose, _she wrote_. I would like to see this set in ithildin._

Celebrimbor’s long fingers curled around her forearm, clearly unaware of the breach of etiquette.

His gaze wandered to the sky, and as Narvi followed it, she felt something poke at the back of her mind. A faint reflection of brightness so clear it would hurt the eyes – a sparkle of joy – the resonance of ancient power, a presence older than her entire race –

It slipped away, so quickly that she wondered if she had imagined it. But Celebrimbor whipped around and stared at her, his odd silvery eyes widened in shock, and Narvi remembered the rumours that elves were capable of mind-speak.

Slowly he let go of her arm, lingering for a moment, as if unwilling to break the contact. But the presence in her mind was gone. A Khazad should not welcome anyone in the privacy of their thoughts, least of all someone they had only just met, and yet - and yet…

A sharp nudge to her ribs destroyed the moment. “Stop staring at the elf and pay attention,” Jari hissed and pointed towards the centre of the plaza, where the musicians had pushed their chairs aside. The Lady Galadriel had risen and was now preparing to speak.

This was definitely a time to mind one’s manners.

She was strange and luminous and awe-inspiring, the Lady of Eregion, even more so than her silver-haired husband who sat beside her with an unreadable expression. But at least her speech was not of the same long-winded redundancy as the earlier ballads. She spoke highly of the friendship and cooperation between Eregion and Khazad-Dum, stressed the mutual benefits, and complimented the creative potential on both sides. It was widely known that the King counted her as a valuable ally, and there was definitely no need to feel unsettled by her presence.

Narvi would have to work on that.

Durin rose at Galadriel’s side side when she had finished. “And so I say,” he beamed, raising an elvish goblet that seemed oddly out of place in his large fist, “I say we drink to friendship, and to a bright future!”

Enthusiastic shouts echoed from the crowd.

Celebrimbor drew a sharp breath and reached out to press Narvi’s shoulder. There was a question in his gaze, but she could not guess his thoughts. She shrugged, and a quick smile flashed over his features. He rose to his feet.

“Permission to speak, my Lords?”

“Of course,” said Durin brightly. Galadriel’s eyebrows rose as she nodded.

“I have an idea.” Celebrimbor’s hand curled and uncurled at his side. “The western entrance of Khazad-Dum is the main connection between the Khazad realm and Eregion. It is where all the traders and diplomats come and go. As yet it is functional but modest, for dwarven standards at least.”

“If you are trying to tell me that it is a mere back door, you may as well be blunt about it.” Durin chuckled. “You are entirely correct. There was never a need for splendour.”

“Now that we are allies, we could make a gate.” Celebrimbor’s voice seemed to vibrate with suppressed excitement. “A testament to the friendship of our people. We could set it in ithildin, so it will shine in the light of the moon and the stars for many ages to come!”

Silence settled across the plaza. Narvi watched the faces of elves and Khazad, friendly, interested, and Galadriel and Durin exchanged an approving glance. Celebrimbor’s hand found her shoulder again, and with a sudden rush of joy, Narvi rose beside him.

“It just so happens,” she informed the astonished King, “that Celebrimbor and I have already made a draft.”

“It is very fitting.”

Celebrimbor stepped back and regarded the finished work with a thoughtful expression. Ithildin reflected in a shimmer on his face and mingled with the sparkle in his eyes, which made him look even more otherworldly than usual. Narvi slid an arm around his waist.

“Not a gateway to the stars, then. But the Khazad will appreciate it more! It is a great honour to my folk.”

“It will last for ages. As will your name and mine, set side by side as they should be.” He bent down to kiss her hair. As she looked up to him, she felt something stir in the back of her mind – a faint ache of loss, a feeling bittersweet and joyful at the same time. Perhaps it was her own, perhaps not. Now and then she felt a brush of feelings she could not place, but never as clearly as she had on the night they first met. Khazad minds were not made for it.

Still he had asked her to let him intertwine his fate with her own, willing as he was to love a mortal whose life could be no more than a heartbeat to him. Out of love for him she should refuse: it was not wise to throw your heart away like this.

She would have to make up her mind soon. But not today.

“I still wish we could travel to the stars,” she mused instead.

His hair brushed against her cheek as he nodded. “To see what substance they are made of – to touch the essence of pure light –“

A shadow passed across his face.

“Too bright, perhaps, for us to endure. But we can look at them from afar and wonder. Will you watch the stars with me tonight, Narvi, now that our work here is done? I know a place where the night is so dark that the number of stars we will see is beyond count.”

“Show it to me,” said Narvi and took his hand.

Behind them, liquid starlight caught in metal-wrought shapes, in stars and trees and anvil and crown, in names and words that would pass into legend.

_The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak friend and enter._

_I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Eregion drew these signs._


End file.
